


Dark Side Of Night

by misc



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Canon Time Period, Evil!Sherlock, Gen, Gore, Inspired by Real Events, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misc/pseuds/misc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack the Ripper is terrorizing the people of Whitechapel London in the year 1888, but the one person who is being trusted to catch him is the last person who should be assigned to the job. Sherlock Holmes has moved on from testing on rats to testing human fear, and has selected his next target: John Watson. But what if he accidentally finds himself befriending the victim before he can finish his work?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Side Of Night

**Author's Note:**

> I had some trouble incorporating the characters from BBC Sherlock into the events of the Whitechapel Murders, and the five famous killings of Jack the Ripper. I tried my best to keep John and Sherlock in character while in such a different setting, and I hope that you can cut me some slack if there are any errors.
> 
> All the people involved, if they aren't Sherlock Holmes characters, are people from the real events surrounding these killings.
> 
> I have always had a bizarre fascination with Jack the Ripper, and this is a crossover I have been wanting to wrote for ages. I don't know if anyone else will be interested in it.  
> Whatever.
> 
> If you don't know anything about Jack the Ripper or the murders in Whitechapel, I suggest you look it up. It is completely fascinating.

It was so dark that walking down the street in London was more like walking through a vat of tar, but this was not a problem for the man in the black coat. His feet were light over the cobblestones as his keen eye scanned the silent streets for pedestrians, and he drew his coat tighter across his recently bloodstained shirt. The peace on the street was shattered as a scream echoed through the air, and he began to run, heart pumping in time with his footsteps, all the way home. 

+++++++

Sherlock Holmes awoke to the sound of someone pounding at the door. He jumped awake in a panic, having fallen asleep sprawled out over a worktable, before sighing and making his way to the front of the room. The landlady Mrs. Hudson was lingering on the other side, wringing her hands.  


“Ah, Mrs. Hudson, what can I do for you so early this morning?” He asked nonchalantly, after the door had swung open, stifling a yawn behind his hand and leaning against the frame.  


“Oh, Sherlock, thank goodness you’re up. Sally Donovan is here to talk to you. There’s been another murder down in Whitechapel.”  
Sherlock’s eyes widened as he brushed past Mrs. Hudson to run down to the front door of his flat at 221B Baker Street, where a distraught Sally Donovan was waiting.  


“Inspector Lestrade needs you at the Yard right away, Sir. Something terrible has happened.”  


Sherlock’s straightened up, crossing his arms. “Mrs. Hudson told me, what was it about another murder?”  


She pulled a newspaper out from under her arm and handed it to him by means of a response. 

"Two Killed in Violent Double-Murder," the title boasted up at him. His brow furrowed as he scanned the first paragraph. "Elizabeth Stride (44) and Catherine Eddowes (46) both found dead in the early hours this morning..." 

“Well, Miss Donovan, I think we better go talk to Lestrade right away. Just allow me to gather some of my equipment”  


As she nodded and he turned back into the hall, a small smile played across his lips. The back room hidden behind the bookcase was open ajar and he could see as he pulled it shut the glinting crimson bottles and shining knives across the shelves.  


+++++++

“Alright, Sherlock, what do you think?” Detective Inspector Lestrade was completely out of his element and it showed on his tired face as he ran a hand over his eyes.  


The area was a mess of blood as the woman before them laid on the floor, face almost peaceful over her black clothing.  


“What did you say her name was?” Sherlock asked as he pulled on gloves and moved around the body.  


“Elizabeth Stride, aged 44. She lived here, was mostly likely a prostitute…” He trailed off, looking like he might be sick as Sherlock inspected the gory slashes in her pale skin.  


“Any witnesses?”  


“One, actually.” He pulled out a piece of paper and read from it as he continued. “Some one reported seeing her being thrown to the ground at around 12:45 last night, and the next time anyone saw her she was dead. The way she was bleeding when they found her she had been done in recently too. That was around one in the morning.”  


Sherlock nodded and continued working. “Deep cut in the throat, about six inches long, neckerchief ripped… What position was she in when they found her?”  


“Erm, she was on her side, facing that wall.”  


Sherlock stood up and walked back and forth across the yard before speaking again. “It looks like the attacker grabbed her by her neckerchief and pulled her to the ground before cutting her throat, note the mud on her head and neck, and the bruising on the shoulder blades. He most probably used some sort of long, thin blade, maybe six inches long.”  


Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes before resting his hands on his hips. “Four killings like this, it seems we have a serial killer on her hands. Sherlock, they are getting worse and worse. The locals are beginning to talk.”  


“What do they say?”  


“They’re calling him Jack The Ripper. The papers are having a field day, with reporters all over my back as if this wasn’t enough. We have no solid witnesses, no leads, and frankly, no idea what to do next.” He had said this all very fast, and the rant had left him red in the face and looking like he might cry. Sherlock eyed him warily.  


“And that’s why you called me.”  


Lestrade nodded stiffly. “Jack the Ripper may be good, Sherlock, but you’re better. We’re counting on that.”  


 _You have no idea._ Sherlock thought to himself as he kept his expression grave and calm. “Serial murders are tricky, Lestrade. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.” 

“We don’t have time to wait! While you’re waiting, four more women could be killed!”  


“I’ll do everything I can.” Sherlock nodded at the upset inspector. _They really don’t have a clue, do they?_ He thought as he walked home. At almost made him feel bad, for playing on the stupidity of the police force like that, but he shoved those feelings aside. The game, he knew, was on.

+++++++

It wasn’t for almost a month that Sherlock dared to go out hunting again, having decided to lure the townsfolk into a false sense of security before executing his next attack. Tirelessly he worked into the nights as the candles burned low next to the bloody trophies in his back room. Eventually, on a clear night in November, he decided it was time for his move. The notebooks full of lists of possible targets had been narrowed down to one, a woman named Mary Jane Kelly. She was young and fair, yet poor, and added up to being the perfect subject for his experiment.  


He had slipped a homemade sedative into Mrs. Hudson’s tea, and the heavy breathing coming from the landlady’s room told him it had done its job as he stole down the stairs and into the hall. Quickly, Sherlock threw on the black coat and mask he had made especially for this kind of work and dashed out the door before anything could stop him.  


The streets were as silent as they had been the first time the detective traded his tests on rats and plants for tests on human fear, and deftly he dodged the accusing light of the streetlamps. It was three minutes after one, which meant the police patrol would be on the street to his left, so he turned right and continued making his way towards the home of the unfortunate Miss Mary Jane.  


Since he had to move slowly, it was a bit after two in the morning by the time he got to the home of his victim. He picked the lock and slipped into the door, to find her asleep on her back on the small bed. Quickly, he injected a dose of his sedative into her veins, and her breathing quickened, and slowed. Smiling down at her, He slipped his six-inch blade out from the hidden sheath in his coat. Mary Jane Kelly’s throat ripped open like tissue paper, all the way to the bone. Her neck became a river of blood as his gloved hands began to work, removing her clothes and destroying her body beyond recognition. The heavy stench of blood flooded Sherlock’s nose and stained his clothes as he felt his skin ripple with the sick joy of playing the villain. The power that came with holding everyone in baffled terror was something even the great detective could not explain.  


It took all of two hours to finish cutting her into pieces and scattering them about the room, and as he turned to leave, it occurred to him what he had done. The room was painted crimson and was littered in human flesh, but he swallowed the bile and guilt in his throat and replaced it with satisfaction. All he could do now was wait for the results to come in.  


+++++++

As it so happened, the results came in at around eleven the next morning. Sherlock had scrubbed every drop of blood and emotion from his being and his rooms by the time Mrs. Hudson’s frantic knock came again at the door. One look at her face and twisted hands confirmed what he already knew. Mary Jane Kelly had been found.  


This time, Lestrade was waiting for him in person, and as they ran the scene of the crime, the inspector breathlessly filled Sherlock in.  


“It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen, Sherlock. She was ripped apart… _ripped apart_. This must be that same killer. I knew he couldn’t have just stopped. The poor boy that found her is in a right state too; he’s down at Scotland Yard.”  


The whole street had been blocked off, and police pushed the nosiest members of the public back as Lestrade and Sherlock ducked through them to the body.  


Even the mortician looked ill as he inspected the scene and attempted to remove the body, which was hard, considering how it was spread across the small room.  


Sherlock gasped, part in acting and part in genuine surprise at how the room looked in the bright light of mid morning. Quickly, he snapped on his gloves and stepped over a bloody lump on his way to the hacked remains in the bed.  


“She was cut in the neck first, and was almost bled out by the time she was cut open. The damage done was not by the hand of anyone with surgical training, which is obvious from the choppy cuts on her, but the nature of this murder suggests it was another Jack the Ripper case.” The mortician said as he made room for Sherlock, looking entirely glad about being able to move away from the body.  


“Don’t use that name.” Sherlock responded curtly  


“What name?”  


“’Jack The Ripper.’ It’s completely ridiculous, and besides, if you give him a clever name, then you are allowing him to get what he wants.”  


“And what’s that?”  


“Fame.” Sherlock did not make eye contact with the man as he began to inspect the body. Everything the mortician had mentioned was true, except of course, the killer did some experience with surgery. Not that he was going to mention that. “I’d like to talk to the man who found her. He’s the closest thing we have to a suspect.”  


+++++++

The man, a ex-soldier named Thomas Bowyer, had been put in a room at Scotland yard, where he had been hysterical since he had arrived there.  
When Sherlock walked into the room, followed by two policemen, Thomas looked up with tearstained and panic-wide eyes. 

“I didn’t do it, I swear. I jus’ looked in the window and she was laying on the bed all in pieces. I was going to collect her rent, because she was six weeks late, an’ she didn’t answer my knocking, an’ so I looked in the window and there was blood and everywhere an’ I ran, sir. But I swear I never killed that girl.” Upon saying this, he promptly began to cry, rising into screaming hysteria as he pulled his head into his arms.  


“He’s innocent.” Sherlock said grimly as the two officers looked up in surprise.  


“What, Sir?” One asked timidly  


“Trust me, officer. I know a liar when I see one, and that man is not lying. He is innocent.” With that, Sherlock turned and left the room, as a nurse ran in to tend to the witness.  


After a long, boring, and stressful talk with Lestrade, Sherlock managed to escape back to the road home, but upon arriving, he learned that he would not be able to work on his record the findings of the day.  


“Sherlock, there’s a man here to see you. He’s in the sitting room.”  


Sherlock sighed deeply, but Mrs. Hudson gave him a firm look and push towards the door before disappearing into the kitchen.  


Upon entering the sitting room Sherlock stopped suddenly when he saw the stranger’s face, which was not in fact one belonging to stranger at all. It was one belonging to a target.  


“You must be Sherlock Holmes. My name is Doctor John Watson.” He rose to his feet and offered a hand to the detective, who snapped out of his momentary shock and slipped back into his casual façade with his mind racing.  


“Hello, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock responded with innocent curiosity. The man was an army doctor who had just recently suffered an injury to the leg and had returned home. His war experience had posed an interest to Sherlock, and what his actions in his last moments would show. Sherlock had been meaning to attack a man to see if people would act differently to that then they had to the death of a woman, but had not yet had the chance.  


“I realize that you are a busy man, but a friend told me that you were the best detective in the trade, and I was wondering if you were accepting clients at the moment. I do have some money saved up, if that helps.” John answered.  


“I am in fact very busy, but I might be able to spare some time. What brings you here?”  


“Well…” John Watson began to speak, as Sherlock looked him up and down, determining what his research in choosing suspects had already led him to believe. “It sounds strange, now that I’m saying it out loud, but I think there is someone stalking me.”  


Sherlock felt his blood run cold, but he kept his voice and countenance passive as he responded. “That does sound strange, Dr. Watson, but not surprising in a time like this.”  


John nodded as his eyes shifted around the sitting room. His fingers stiffened around the handle of his thin cane. Before he could respond, Mrs. Hudson bustled in with two cups of tea and left them on the table before exiting again. Sherlock ignored his cup, but John murmured a thank you and took a small sip, wincing at the steaming liquid on his lips.  


“What makes you think that, if I may ask?” Sherlock moved closer and sat down next to the other man, feeling strongly like they knew each other well, even though they were only now meeting. At least, they were only now meeting in the conventional sense.  


“For a few weeks now, there have been small things, like noises at night and once even footprints on my front step.”  


 _Dammit._ Sherlock cursed to himself.  


“But with all those girls murdered, I thought it was time to do something about it. I don’t trust the police, but I heard I could count on you to help.”  


Sherlock’s mouth curved into a small smile that John read as a sign that he had made the proper choice. “I’ll look into it, Dr. Watson. Would you like me to come round tomorrow?”  


“That would be excellent, Mr. Holmes, and you can call me John, if you like.”  


Sherlock nodded as John scribbled down his address. As soon as the door swung shut behind the doctor, and Sherlock had returned to his room, he couldn’t resist spinning around and clapping his hands together. An invitation to a possible test subject’s home was more than he had hoped for. It looked to him like Doctor John Watson had just re-claimed his spot as his next victim.

+++++++  


At twelve o’clock sharp, Sherlock rapped his knuckles on the wooden door. He had been to John’s house half a dozen times over the last few months, but that was in secrecy and the dead if night, so he peered at the small paper that contained his address and pretended to not know where he was. A few minutes later, John Watson appeared through the crack in the door, before it swung open all the way.  


“Mr. Holmes! Thank you for stopping by.”  


“Please, call me Sherlock. May I come in?  


“Yes, of course…. Sherlock.”  


The great detective stepped over the threshold and imminently began to look around, inconspicuously taking note of every creaking floorboard and snag on the carpet.  


“So, erm, I started getting suspicious about two moths ago, when the noises started. At first I assumed it was rats, since this place was empty before I moved in, but then I found the footsteps outside.”  


“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded peering out the windows. “And you are sure that it wasn’t, for example, a delivery boy who made the footprints?”  


“It was too early in the morning for that to make sense.”  


Sherlock nodded, feeling all to aware of the blond man’s eyes on his back as he continued to look around.  


“Would you mind showing me the area where you found said footprints?”  


“Sure.” John turned and gestured for Sherlock to follow as he made his way out the front door and onto the stoop.  


“They were right here. It was a few days before I worked up the courage to come see you, so they have since washed away. Sorry.”  


“No need to apologize, Doctor.” Sherlock muttered absently as he bent to run his fingers over the sun-warmed bricks.  


“I guess it’s not much to go on.”  


“No, John, I’m afraid it’s not. The best I can do for you is advise you to keep your doors and windows locked.”  


“Alright. Thanks for your time, and sorry again for having wasted it.”  


Sherlock smiled stiffly and turned to leave, torn between excitement, and horror. In the same way that it’s a bad idea to adopt animals you mean to test on as pets, he learned, it’s a bad idea to personally get to know people you plan to murder.

+++++++

Two weeks and two visits with John later, Sherlock’s curiosity overran his blossoming friendship and he decided it was time to act. The room behind the bookcase reeked of formaldehyde and human flesh, but Sherlock did not mind the smell as he lined the inside of his coat with an array of knives and chemicals. The moon was a sliver of light cutting through the gloom, and it made his shadow dance as his heels clicked over the cobblestones. His mind was racing more than usual. On the few occasions he had met with John, he had enjoyed himself more than he would ever admit.  


Five days after the afternoon when Sherlock had pretended to look for clues at John’s house, they had bumped into each other in the street and John had asked after the Whitechapel murders, leading to a conversation that carried the two into a small bar. Their other meeting occurred the day after Sherlock had returned to investigate John’s house, when John had stopped by to announce that someone had been at his house again that night.  


Sherlock shook these memories aside as he dogged a streetlight and crossed the road to stay hidden from a staggering drunk talking to himself on the corner. 

It was one thirty when he crossed the brick walk to John Watson’s door for the last time  


There was a light flickering from the window into John’s bedroom, and Sherlock set his face to stone as his years of experience allowed him to silently pick the lock and slide into the dark lower floor of the house. He walked forward, stopping to move over the lumps and frays in the carpet that he had noted on his visit. He hopped over the first step, which creaked, and secured his mask tighter to his face as he approached the second floor landing. Candlelight shone out from under the bedroom door as Sherlock Holmes stood in the landing, waiting to make his move. He stood silent until darkness fell and the sounds of breathing steadied. His gloved hard wrapped around the doorknob, and slowly he turned it, and entered the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, John sat straight up and awake, balling the sheets in his fists are he stared around. Sherlock slipped into a clumsy hiding place at the foot of the bed, out of eyesight. His heart was pounding in his throat as he worked to keep his breath silent.  


“Who’s there?” John called, voice eerily steady.  


Sherlock, of course, did not respond, but the familiar voice sent through him a jolt of regret so great it was hard to ignore. For what seemed like hours, Sherlock crouched on the floor as John sat straight as a board in the bed, staring around the room. Eventually, he lay back, but his breathing was too loud and quick for him to be sleeping.  


People say that you do most of your thinking in the dark at night, and Sherlock contemplated this as he stooped over on the dusty floorboards. The man breathing only a few feet away was one of the few he had ever met who had treated him like a friend, and now he was waiting to end his life. There were notebooks of research waiting to be completed in Sherlock’s workroom, but from here they seemed like the frantic ravings of a mad man.  


It was like gathering the will to jump, but eventually Sherlock was ready to continue executing the plan he had so meticulously strategized the day before. It took one swift movement to jump over the back of the bed and land on top of the army doctor. Before John could cry out, Sherlock shoved one of his knees into his throat, and his scream was lost in a choked gasp as his pinned-down arms flailed against the attacker.  


Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as his hand reached for his six-inch knife that had become so trademark of Jack the Ripper.  


“Please…”John was trying to say, but his eyes were struggling to say open and his words were garbled. The knife was at his throat now, and a drop of blood ran down the blade to Sherlock’s palm as he pressed it against the pale skin. The crimson globe sparked something in Sherlock, and he jumped back. John’s body shuddered as he coughed and retched with the sudden lack of pressure, unable to try and escape.  


Sherlock backed up against the wall, breathing heavily and trying to understand what he had done and what he was doing.  


“I’m sorry.” He whispered, before turning and fleeing into the night like the coward he now knew he was. 

+++++++

At eight twenty-three the next morning, Sherlock turned himself in.

At eight forty-six, Lestrade and his men arrived with him at the hidden room in the back of 221B Baker Street, and he showed them his work and his trophies and his weapons.

It was more than enough proof, he shut his eyes tightly as Lestrade handcuffed him, unable to look at the inspector's betrayal-ridden expression.

He did not talk for two weeks, just sat in his cell watching the spiders dance between the shadows. The guard said he screamed in his sleep. 

He was sentenced to death for the murders of Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catharine Eddows, Mary Jane Kelly, and for the attempted murder of John Watson. 

The night before his execution, he had two visitors. The first was Mrs. Hudson, who held his hands and spoke through her tears. “Please, Sherlock, just stop this. This is not the work of the man I knew. Please, please stop…” her words were cut off as she began to sob and was led of by the guard. Sherlock remained silent, having to say that would make any difference to the woman who treated him like a son.

Sherlock wasn’t expecting any other visitors after Mrs. Hudson, and was thoroughly shocked when John Watson appeared through the bars. His hands wrapped around the metal bars and he looked through them like he was the one being imprisoned. His neck was mottled blue, purple and green, with bruises so prominent they showed through the cotton bandage. Seeing him made Sherlock feel nauseous and he wished desperately that there were something he could say that would allow him to start apologizing for what he had done. John kept moving like he was going to talk, but he never did, and Sherlock decided that hurt more than anything words could have. 

By the time he was being led to the place where he would be killed, he had wiped himself clean of any emotion. The execution room was surrounded by a mob, and dozens of policemen were needed to keep their clawing hands off Sherlock as they screamed profane insults and threats at him. He kept his eyes down, but right as he was turning to enter the building where he was to be executed, he looked up.

The road before him was a sea of screaming civilians, and for a moment he was grateful that he was going to be able to leave the world behind.

That’s when he saw, at the back of the crowd, the small figure of John Watson leaning on his cane. They made eye contact, and John opened his mouth to shout, but before he could, one of the officers shoved Sherlock into the room and the heavy door cut off the noise.

Sherlock gasped with the tears he had been holding for what seemed like an age as a cloth was slipped around his eyes. The rope scratched his skin as it rested just across his collarbones, digging into the back of his neck. He took a deep shaking breath and let his eyelids drop shut, dropping tears through his lashes. 

His stomach dropped.


End file.
